Monday, October 17, 2011


I received my first posters printed from my Serenity Gallery today.  They were processed by and are decent quality.  Matte print. Color. Black and white. 24x36 prints.

My Silent Exile.
Mandrake Season.
Season's End.
Blood of the Naiad.

I believe they look amazing. They are the beginning, the first of the new brood.  Even though I have no customers, I have developed a product and made it available. I once criticized artists that had no venue for their works to be purchased. I now have printed art, but no demand.

I am giving away "My Silent Exile" and "Season's End" to a United Way Auction at work.  People will purchase them, and my art will end up in their homes.  This is how an artists lives, I suppose: through representation in the lives of others.  Most of the money I make at my day job goes towards funding the artistic (or spiritual) evolution of my customers, advancement of my ability to express the darkness within.

It is through them I live, through them I survive and evolve.  It is through them I breathe.

And keep the darkness alive.

In 24x36 spaces.

Sunday, October 16, 2011


I can't deny the desire to become something different than I am, a disquiet discontent with the person that I am.  I think it is a consequence of my life, this lonely, misdirected path doesn't seem like the road I should be on.  It is incongruent with that of my elders. Many times in my history have I contemplated changing. This time seems different though.  I've burned through social circles and exited on the other side without company.  I've pushed the boulder to the top of the mountain, only to see it fall again.  I've dedicated myself to an artistic path, and still don't have artistic respect or a following or a market. I have a recognizable brand, but one that is relatively worthless, especially in an economy that cannot afford to support art.

These days, it is my blessing and curse.  It gives me a bit of an escape from the darkening days, but it pushes me further from common human circles.  

I am just tired of trying to please everyone else, and leaving nothing for myself.  I no longer know what happiness is.  I try to envision a personal concept of happy, and feel sadness, as if all of my former concepts are now attached to the deep soreness, dreams bloodied and bruised and left to die.  Our concepts of happy remain that pure and glowing so long as they are not tested.  Once the power of a happy place or state or person has been diminished, he/she/it no longer powers the same light as it did before.  

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

old dreams and grounded hopes

Nobody likes to change. Time passes so quickly, and before you know it, you're a shade of the person you once were.  Your hair falls out.  Things just start hurting at random.  The power of atrophy becomes stronger with each passing day.

You can feel her touch rake your skin, her whisper of decay in your ears.

"You're gonna die, just like the rest of them," she coos.

"Only faster."

I can feel the gravity of life dropping, the dynamic center losing speed. And I blame it on myself, because I'm not working hard enough to push away her grasp, running fast enough to stay out of her draft.  But there's little I can do. Once she's onto you, part of you, within the orbit of your heart, her dissolution consumes you.

We sink quick. To dirt, much too fast.  Once we reach a certain point of ascension, we can only stay elevated for a short time.  Before the inevitable fall begins.

To a memory, much too fast.

And she stands mockingly apathetic to our frailties. It's not her job to care whether or not we need more time, or need time slowed down.  Maybe just stopped for a while, so I can catch up a bit and know what it's like to live, be present at the peak of that ascension and appreciative of the view. I am hopeful that I didn't already miss the inertial jump.

Planes fly because of a complicated set of parameters and factors.  People are no different.  As the body of the  plane begins to break down, it eventually has to be junked.  It loses it's ability to call to air, reduced to a sad rusted heap of old dreams and grounded hopes.

We talk, and there are fewer in number to listen.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

i'm sorry, i got the sherpa drunk

And before you know it, you're bitter, the sickness of sadness sliding down your throat and into your lungs, captured in your capillaries and pushed into your extremities, ultimately plunging back into your core, the coronal center of this world, your orbit and your existence.  Bleating, until the muscles don't have the strength to beat anymore.  It's a cautious and careful curse.

But a cunning one.

You believe you understand, but it's all context. It's your truth, not necessarily reality.  When you turn to face truth in the cracked pane, things are much clearer but less complete.

It's been a year of crevices and crags, of highs not thought attainable and lows abysmal. Of weddings.  Of funerals. Of three failed relationships, and the further distancing of cherished friends.  Of chances and choices, of evolution and decay.  Of the release of my first major artistic project, and the realization that I don't have an artistic product that I survive off of, if I needed to.  Of physical steps backwards, and spiritual steps forward.  Of empty days and emptier nights.

Of giving up.  Giving in.  Giving away for the sake of us.  Time is the greatest xenomorphine the soul can buy; you give of yourself until the old you is a numb reflection of the person you used to hold dear.  But the disconnection is addictive and intoxicating.  It becomes you.  It changes you.  It redefines you into something lost, out side of the circles and the numbers of common society.

It marks your days and changes your ways.

Today is ten ten, once again. I'll always be tied to this day, the one day in my life that I've ever committed my future to another, that I ever vowed to protect another with my life, that I lived the life of my parents and their parents before them and all the generations previous.  I am an anomaly, I suppose; a cunning and cut-off new breed that has no past, whose given name is even the thing of a ghost story.  Without a past, the future is a leafless tree in a shallow graveyard.

I am not depressed.  People tend to think that I am.  Depressed people don't function well as normal humans.  I can function just fine; I am just darker now, the colors of pain stained onto the cloth of this heathen existence.  The nice turned ice.  The frown without the ability to fully stay up-side-down.

So, nod and smile then.  The sherpa can't read the map anymore anyway; he seems to have lost clarity some time ago, drunk on the thin mountain air and the bitter milk of regret.  Regardless, we must keep ascending, in order to survive and have things like computers, and broadband and Starbucks and caffeine and socially-important standing so we can attract women and followers and fans and pseudofamily.  Man, do we need this.

Addicted to each other, we are. Can't get enough of each other, we seem.  So impressed with who we are.  We promote ourselves through pages and social connections and butterfly-like engagements. With egos not easily satiated, we lust for each other.  For what we have and who we are.  Or what we can do.  For the temporary respite from solitude.  For now, rarely forever these days.  Solitude finds you like a debt collector with an urgent commission.

We always pay.  Eventually.  The mountain claims more than it allows to summit.  You're just another number, no matter the latitudes.

Kick the sherpa and see if he responds.  He might know the right path through the rough.  But, honestly, do you trust his guidance? How do you mark the words of a dead man?  Do you reckon his honesty, or lament his sentence?  I would apologize to my guide, but part of methinks he's led me a bit astray, away from the mountain and into the vast pasture of the drift.

You believe you understand, but it's all context. It's your truth, not necessarily reality.  When you turn to face your guide and his drunk visage, things are much clearer but less coherent.

But that's the way we like it, more drunk than sober.

More bitter than better.

Less than more.

More lie than


Thursday, October 6, 2011

the wasteland

This time and this place are very unfamiliar.  I feel more weary now, from the spirit out, weathered by the bitter chaotic winds.  Rustier. Wasted.  More him, less me, the shadow overcoming the sun in a spectacular decay of light.  The red spectrum bleeds deeply and with creepy touch, into a stain of degrading memory.

Fading.  I am

no longer sure of the path.  The roadsigns seem foreign and the maps are soaked with spilled coffee and tears.  Here, the wasteland speaks in cinderous tones.  The weeds behind me are filled with snakes and liars, whispering and whistling for .

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

user experience

Some days, it's just not worth it.  Today, for example, I check into my blog to find all of my blog counts cleared to zero.  I don't know why.  It just happened out of the blue screen of death.  Yesterday, there was a pittance of views, mostly by link and blog engines, and today there are none.

My readership was obliviated. A first for this blogger.  Part of me wants to hunt down why I lost all of my counts.  Part of me thinks that'll take too much work.  Another, much stronger, part of me is apathetic.

This isn't for you anyway.  It's for me.  The views ultimately don't matter; it's the spill that does.

This is my selfish little escape to anywhere, anywho and anyhow.  If you're reading this, I applaud your interest and diligence. I'm not sure how entertaining this will be for either of us, especially today, a day when my user experience opinion of life isn't very high.  But thanks for being here, with me, in this space today.

Today I feel lonely, and I appreciate your company.  More than other days, and I don't know why.  This doesn't seem like an escape to me today; the words feel like a coffin, baked in the short sun of an Indian Summer and prepped dead for the cornucopia.